


Teen Wolf Twitter Prompts

by silentdescant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Consent Play, Danger, Established Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Gen, Jealousy, M/M, Magic, Pining, Prompt Fic, Trust, Truth Spells, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-07-29 08:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16260104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: I solicited prompts from twitter friends. 7 disconnected ficlets. Steter, Sterek, gen.





	1. Chapter 1

**truth compulsion spell – @ehcimocs**

It’s incredibly unfortunate that Peter is the one with all the mythical, magical knowledge. Stiles stares down at his phone with building apprehension, because he can’t talk to Peter when he’s like this, but he _needs_ Peter. He’s already discovered that texting doesn’t let him off the hook, either.

He presses the little phone icon next to Peter’s name with a shaking thumb and brings the phone up to his ear. Maybe he can just… not answer anything irrelevant. Just stay silent. Bite his tongue until it bleeds.

“I heard you have a witch problem,” Peter says is lieu of answering his phone like a normal person.

“Yes,” Stiles says. “I—”

“Don’t talk, Stiles, just come over. I’ve got a book that might be useful. And some duct tape to put over your mouth if you need it.”

Stiles hangs up the phone before he can accidentally let slip anything embarrassing and heads over to Peter’s apartment. The door’s unlocked when he arrives, so he just goes inside.

Peter’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the center island where a heavy, leather-bound book lies open beside a cutting board and a small bowl.

“I’m not going to ask you anything,” he says, before Stiles can speak. “You can speak if you want, or we can look up this spell in silence. Scott filled me in on the, uh… issue already.”

“I thought you would jump at the chance to ask me things when I can’t lie,” Stiles mutters. He slaps a hand over his mouth immediately. “I didn’t mean to say that,” he says into his palm. “It’s hard to keep quiet around you.”

Peter eyes him, a smirk playing around his lips. “I don’t need a truth spell to know what you want to say to me, darling. Let’s get you fixed up, then maybe we can play two truths and a lie and I’ll show you just how easy you are to read.”

***

**somebody else’s scent on Stiles’s shirt – @morgandy**

**Derek realizes his feelings for Stiles when he smells someone on him and gets jealous. - @sapphiremoon13**

All the kids are back from college for the holidays, and Derek finds himself breathing easier now that they’re in town. They’re not even his pack, but he feels safer with other supernaturals close at hand. Like he’s got backup. Like the town’s safety isn’t resting entirely on his shoulders anymore. He invites Scott and the rest over to the loft to update them on what’s been happening over the past few months.

Of course it turns into a pizza party, a reunion of sorts, since they all scattered across the country to different schools. The loft is noisy and more crowded than Derek likes, but everyone’s smiling and happy. For once, impending doom isn’t hanging over all of their heads.

He and Scott stand around the table, shoulder to shoulder without any tension simmering between them while Derek points out a few things on a map of Beacon Hills. Scott reaches his hand out to smooth down a corner of the paper and Derek suddenly realizes how strange it is that Stiles isn’t leaning across the table with them. As noisy as the loft is, filled with teenagers, it feels quiet without Stiles’s boisterous presence. Derek clears his throat awkwardly while Scott’s attention is on the map and not on him.

“Is, uh… Is Stiles back in town too?”

“Just got back today,” Scott replies offhandedly. “He wanted to have dinner with his dad, but he’ll be over later, I think.”

It settles something inside Derek to know that. He really does need an alpha of his own, he thinks, if he’s latching on so hard to Scott McCall and his human sidekick.

Stiles doesn’t arrive until almost midnight, but like always, his eyes are bright and he’s full of energy. He slaps Scott’s shoulder in greeting and leans over the back of the couch to kiss Lydia’s cheek before making his way into the kitchen area, where Derek’s fixing himself a drink. Derek gets out another cup and pours Stiles a coke from the two-liter bottle already in his hand.

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says. “It’s like you read my mind. Need the caffeine.”

“Jetlag, right?”

“I’m a night owl anyway,” Stiles says with a shrug. “But yeah, it’s been a busy few weeks.”

He doesn’t look tired at all, so Derek wonders if his exhaustion is more mental than physical. He studies Stiles’s face for the shadow of bruises that would mean he’s been fighting, or the tight eyes that would mean he’s feeling particularly anxious, but Stiles just looks healthy and normal. Happy, even, which is a new look on him.

That would make a good compliment, actually, Derek thinks as they both sip their drinks. “You look happy,” he says. “It’s a good look.”

Stiles beams at him. “Thanks!” Stiles puts down his cup and takes off his hoodie, leaves it in a pile on the counter, sighing with relief. “So much warmer here than in Washington, dude. There was snow on the ground when I got dropped off at the airport. We turned the car off in the parking lot and it turned into a damn refrigerator. We could see our breath and everything.”

“Hey, Stiles, c’mere for a sec!” Scott calls from across the room. Stiles gives Derek a cursory nod before jogging across the room to his friend’s side.

Derek moves Stiles’s abandoned clothes out of the way so he can put down his own drink, but then—then he smells it, the subtle notes of cologne and—and come. And it’s not Stiles’s scent, all too familiar to Derek after spending so much time together during Stiles’s high school years. There’s some other boy’s scent on Stiles’s clothes. On his hoodie.

Derek stares down at the bundle of fabric. His fingers curl in the nest of one coiled sleeve. Maybe it’s not Stiles’s hoodie. But it is. Derek recognizes the fraying tear in the hem. It’s familiar, and it’s saturated with Stiles’s scent. It’s his. It’s his, and it smells like someone else. Under all the mingled scents of airports and stale air and people, it smells like _someone else_.

Derek wants to bring it up to his face, get a good whiff, but it’s not going to tell him anything new. There’s someone else’s scent on Stiles’s clothes. An intimate, unmistakable scent. And Derek’s stomach aches like he’s been stabbed. The sense of security and relief he’d felt earlier, just knowing Stiles was in town, has vanished, and now he just feels untethered.

An image flashes in his mind, terrifyingly clear, of Stiles and some faceless college boy making out in a freezing parked car, exchanging rushed handjobs before Stiles has to leave, wiping their hands on their clothes. Stiles in an airport bathroom, hastily washing come off his hoodie with paper towels and water. Stiles spending so much time with humans that he forgets about werewolf noses. It makes indignant anger burn through Derek’s chest.

But then he takes in Stiles’s wide smile as Scott tells him a story, and Stiles’s reply involves a lot of enthusiastic hand gestures, and Stiles just looks comfortable in his body in a way that Derek hasn’t seen from him before. He looks relaxed and healthy and _happy_ , and Derek decides right then that he doesn’t care to know more than that.

***

**waiting in the dark – @morgandy**

Stiles has never been one to cower away from danger, but Argent’s icy glare from across the hallway keeps him huddled under a desk. Argent stares him down, crouched behind a file cabinet in the other room, and brings his finger to his lips. Stiles almost rolls his eyes. If he’s being forced to hide, of course he’ll be quiet.

Stiles doesn’t have any weapons on him, but Argent does, and Stiles watches him take a few things from various pockets and set them out on the floor in front of him. Bullets, Stiles thinks, though the darkness and the distance makes it hard to tell.

There’s a clatter from one of the rooms down at the end of the hall and tension arcs through Stiles’s body. He’s on the verge of springing to his feet, ready to run or ready to fight, whichever makes the most sense when this thing appears in the doorway.

Argent makes a violent, frustrated gesture, gritting his teeth like Stiles just said something incredibly stupid. His meaning is clear, though: get down, stay down. Wait.

Stiles likes plans. He likes strategy. He also likes seizing the moment and impulsively lashing out at monsters that corner him in deserted office buildings. Waiting is not his style.

He can’t deny Argent has more experience, though. Years and years of training and tracking and _hunting_. If Argent tells him to wait, he’ll fucking wait. He won’t like it, but he’ll do it.

Argent does something with the bullets and tools in front of him, working quickly and quietly in the dim light from a nearby window. He readies his weapon and meets Stiles’s eyes again. He nods this time, which means it’s time to get off his ass and _do_ something. Stiles nods back, tense and ready.

The improvised weapon is some kind of grenade. Argent holds up his hand, ticking off fingers as they listen to the monster get closer and closer. Then Argent steps out from behind his cover, rising to his full height, and lobs the object down the hallway, where it explodes.

Stiles takes that as his cue and runs. He feels Argent right on his heels.

***

**new werewolf in town – @morgandy**

Beacon Hills doesn’t need a new supernatural creature, but that doesn’t stop Lydia from bringing one home from college for the summer. He has an internship, she says to the pack parents. He’s nice and won’t cause trouble, she assures Scott and Derek. He’s really sexy, she adds in an undertone to Stiles.

And, well, he can’t argue with her. Stiles meets him a few days later when he picks Lydia up from a pack meeting at Derek’s place downtown. Stiles walks her down to the parking lot just in time to see the guy climb out of his car and slam the door. He’s carrying an iced coffee for her and wearing a bright smile, and he looks like the blandly attractive sort of boy Lydia favors, but his biceps are to die for and his eyes are a gorgeous sky blue and his lips are deliciously plump and pink.

Stiles gives Lydia an approving shrug.

She leans against his arm, pressing flush against him, to put her lips by his ear. “You know born wolves are notoriously well-hung, right?”

Stiles freezes. She bounds away from him to greet her newest boytoy and accept her gift of coffee, and Stiles knows he’s staring at the fit of the guy’s dark wash jeans but he can’t tear his eyes away. He’s not really seeing this boy anymore, anyway; his mind is suddenly fully occupied by another werewolf and _his_ well-fitting jeans.

He makes it through a perfunctory introduction, then hurriedly makes his excuses to go back upstairs to Derek’s loft.

***

**Stiles listens to/meets Superfruit – @n2fitnss**

Stiles has no idea how to dance. He also has a very low threshold for embarrassment. Those two things combine very well for him when he slips out of the house late at night and goes to Jungle with his brand new fake ID. The lights are flashing and the dance floor is crowded with sweaty bodies, most of them shirtless. Stiles stands near the bar, waiting for his drink, and prepares himself to enter the throng.

“Already paid for, sweetie,” the heavily made up bartender says as he slides a cocktail across the counter. “That gentleman over there.”

Stiles takes it with a shout of thanks and shoulders his way over to the man who bought him a drink. He’s older—really old, actually, for this scene—and his gaze seems a little too hungry to be entirely casual, but Stiles figures he should at least thank the guy in person.

But the man is even more lecherous than Stiles expected, and Stiles’s lip curls in thinly veiled disgust, and he casts about for a good excuse to leave.

 _Another night, I feel barely alive,_ the lyrics of a new song blast through the speakers, sparking recognition and relief. Stiles gives the guy a fake apologetic smile and says, “I have to go dance to this song, thanks for the drink, bye!”

As soon as he loses himself in the crowd of bodies, he lets his limbs go loose and sinks into the beat. He blows a kiss up to the sound system. “Thanks for the save, Superfruit.”

***

**a rescued pup – @morgandy**

“I can’t take another one,” Scott says, turning his puppy-dog eyes on full blast. “Deaton’s out of space at the clinic and I already have three at home, and Stiles is out of town, and the Sheriff doesn’t have time, and Lydia’s dog doesn’t like other dogs—or… anyone, really—and Malia’s… Malia, and—”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Derek groans. “I’ll take him. But not forever, just until you find a home. And you better be actively looking, Scott McCall. Do not dump some pathetic rodent in my lap and leave me hanging, you hear me?”

“He’s not a rodent! You’ll love him!” Stiles says excitedly. He ducks around the corner and comes back two seconds later with a small crate and a shopping bag. Derek groans again. He’s getting way too soft; even Scott was sure he’d give in to this ridiculous request. “I have food and toys and everything already, so you’re all set.”

“Promise me, Scott.”

“I’ll find him a home,” Scott grumbles, then brightens again and gives Derek his trademark lopsided smile, the one that he thinks absolves him of all sins. “Come on, just look at this cute little face!”

He opens the door of the crate and a mangy little ball of fluff tumbles out, skidding a bit on the hard floor of Derek’s apartment.

Derek sighs. There’s going to be white dog hair all over his apartment before the day is through.

“He’s got all his shots and everything. He just needs a place to stay for a little while. I’ll find him a home, I promise. But you’re gonna fall in love. I promise that too. He’s such a sweetie. Very affectionate. Doesn’t bite. I didn’t even need to flash my eyes at him.”

“Great,” Derek says shortly.

“He’s still a puppy, though, so keep an eye on him. He might not be, uh… fully adjusted to the apartment lifestyle.”

So Scott’s dropping off a little fuzzy rat that hasn’t been housetrained.

Derek sighs again and crosses his arms as he watches the puppy explore beneath the kitchen table and chairs, likely searching for crumbs. He’s small enough to fit under there without ducking down.

“Does he have a name?”

“It’s not official, but I’ve just been calling him Fluffy, so. There ya go. All set?”

Derek nods and ushers Scott back into the hall, then turns around and stares down the pup. “Alright, Fluffy, it’s just me and you now. Let’s just stay out of each other’s way and we’ll both be fine. This is only temporary. No peeing on the rugs.” He gives the dog his best mean, serious alpha face.

Fluffy scampers over, unafraid, and licks Derek’s big toe.

“Great.”

***

**Do you want it? Do you want anything I have?**  
**Will you throw me to the ground**  
**like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it**  
**out with your bare hands?**

**[this @sikenpoems tweet for steter](https://twitter.com/sikenpoems/status/1050042656712208385) – @ragingrainbow**

Stiles looks peaceful in sleep. Not always, not lately, but right now he does. His face is calm, his hands lax and open against the sheets, his lips parted and relaxed. It’s nice to see him without his face tight with anxiety and fear.

Peter drags the tip of his finger carefully down the vulnerable, exposed length of Stiles’s throat. It’s not enough to wake him, not when Stiles is sleeping so deeply, but it’s also not enough to satisfy Peter. He wants to feel the heartbeat he can hear thudding beneath Stiles’s skin. He wants to extend a claw and leave a scratch, a mark that will last.

“I want you to be mine,” he breathes into the moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains.

He lets out a sigh and something about it—the sound, the puff of air, Peter’s not sure—disturbs Stiles just enough to make him shift around, turn onto his side, curl his legs up. His knee presses against Peter’s thigh and Stiles reaches out blindly, draping his arm over Peter’s side.

His mouth goes even slacker than before, jaw dropped slightly, and Peter aches to kiss him.

There’s something different about Stiles. There always has been, ever since Peter first laid eyes on him in the hospital. Peter’s usual urges disappear, replaced entirely by the fierce need to ask, to _beg_ for permission.

He can’t bring himself to brush his lips across Stiles’s open mouth. Not while he’s sleeping.

Peter trails his fingertip across the soft line of Stiles’s cheekbone, then down along his jaw. He touches his lower lip, plucking it down and indenting the pink flesh.

That makes Stiles’s eyes flutter open. His lashes are dark and his brown eyes are darker, hidden by shadows. “Pe’er,” Stiles whispers.

“I want to kiss you,” Peter whispers back. “Can I?”

“C’n always kiss me,” Stiles replies, slurring a little.

Peter does, gently, just like he wanted to moments ago. Just a brush of their lips together, the soft warmth of mingled breath.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Peter can see awareness creep back into Stiles’s eyes as he wakes up a little more.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” he asks.

“I just want you so much,” Peter murmurs. “I want to have you. I want everything. I want _you_.” He’s normally so articulate, but he can’t put this longing into words.

“You have me.” Stiles blinks a few times, coming fully awake. He lays his hand on Peter’s cheek. “Peter, you have me.”

“I can’t take anything from you,” Peter tells him. “I want so much, but I can’t—I can’t take it. I can’t just…”

“Is there something I haven’t given freely? Is there something you need?”

“I don’t know how to describe it, sweetheart, I just, I want…” _to possess you_. He can’t say that out loud. Not to Stiles. But Peter _wants_. It’s all-consuming, this need.

They lapse into silence, staring at each other, studying each other. Peter feels flayed open under Stiles’s understanding gaze. He likes it and hates it in equal measure. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt with anyone but Stiles.

“You’re used to taking,” Stiles says. “Just taking whatever you want.”

“Not with you,” Peter replies quickly.

“Never with me,” Stiles agrees. Peter can tell he’s remembering when they met, when Peter asked about the Bite. They’ve talked about it since. Stiles doesn’t understand why Peter had asked, when he didn’t with Scott.

Maybe that’s what this strange pull in his gut means, Peter thinks. Maybe he wants to turn Stiles. Maybe he’s still craving the feeling of pack and mate, alpha and turned beta. A solidified bond. Maybe he craves the dynamic he imagined when they met. Peter _longs_ and he just can’t name what he wants that’s more than he already has.

“If you were still an alpha…” Stiles says.

“Don’t.”

“I’ll give you anything you want.”

“I want you to say yes.”

“Anything, Peter. Yes.”

Peter takes a quick breath. “I want… I want to take from you but I can’t. I can’t do it, Stiles, I can’t do that to you. Not to you.”

He can tell Stiles doesn’t understand. That’s okay. Peter’s not explaining it right anyway. He leans close, waits for Stiles to nod, mostly with his eyes, that’s how small the movement is. He presses his lips to Stiles’s forehead.

“I just love you so much,” he murmurs. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’m sorry I woke you.”

***

The following day, Stiles comes to him while Peter’s sitting on the couch with a book. Stiles slides down to his knees between Peter’s parted legs. He hands over a piece of paper. Peter puts the book aside before he takes it.

“What’s this?”

“Maybe this can give you what you need, without… without hurting me.”

It’s a printout of a Wikipedia page. There are paragraphs describing roleplay and fantasy and consent. At the top, Stiles has written something in thick, black Sharpie. **My safeword is WOLFSBANE**. Something inside Peter churns with excitement and fear and longing.

“I want you to do this,” Stiles tells him calmly. “I want you to take from me. You don’t need my permission. You don’t need my consent. I want you to take everything you’ve ever wanted. You don’t need me to say yes anymore. I still love you when I’m asleep and when I’m distracted and when I’m at my dad’s house and when I’m making dinner. This is me saying yes. To you. Always.”

Peter’s hands twitch and clench, wrinkling the paper. He lays it carefully on top of the discarded book and takes a deep breath. “Say it.”

“Wolfsbane.”

“You’ll use it.”

“I won’t have to," Stiles says, but he nods. "I trust you.”

Peter nods. Stiles stares up at him, his gorgeous brown eyes warm and understanding. Peter feels a snarl twisting his lips, a violent roar building in his chest.

“I want to own you,” Peter growls through gritted teeth. “I want to—” _possess you_ “—control you. I want to _take_ , Stiles, sweetheart, I want to take from you but I can’t just—”

“ _Take from me_ , Peter," he says urgently. "Take everything. Take me. Please.”

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple more prompts...

**For @RagingRainbow: Steter for this quote: “Your sweater is ugly, it’s a good thing you aren’t.”**

 

Peter will never admit to being nervous, but Stiles knows he is. Deep down. Somewhere. He rolls around on Peter’s expensive, comfortable mattress, with its expensive, decadent sheets and moans.

“We could just not go out,” he says. “You could fuck me again.”

“As much as I’d love to, we’re going to be late if you don’t get out of bed now. Maybe I’ll fuck you in Scott’s bed. If you’re good,” Peter calls through the open bathroom door.

“Ugh, Scott’s bed is lumpy and smells bad.”

“Well, he’s a college student.”

“So’m I.”

Peter sighs heavily. The difference in their ages isn’t something he likes to discuss; he tells Stiles he feels old sometimes in the face of Stiles’s energy, and he’s incredibly supportive of Stiles doing classwork during their evenings together to maintain his grades, but he always shies away from verbally acknowledging that Stiles is still a 20 year old college student.

Peter comes out of the bathroom, still fully naked and just rubbing a towel through his damp hair, and assesses his closet. Stiles takes the prime opportunity to stare at his ass. He watches Peter pull out a pair of jeans, a pair of underwear, a pair of socks, and Stiles’s favorite braided leather bracelet. He tosses everything onto the bed—onto Stiles—before continuing to look for a shirt.

“This is a college party,” Stiles reminds him. “Don’t look too fancy. Everyone will think I’m sleeping with a teacher.”

“I haven’t been to a college party since I was in college,” Peter grumbles. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

“It’ll be fun. We’ll get drunk and you can fuck me in Scott’s bed.”

“Get dressed before I take you up on your suggestion of just staying home.”

Stiles clambers off the bed and wraps his arms around Peter from behind, hooking his chin over Peter’s shoulder. Peter reaches for Stiles with one hand and a cardigan with the other.

“No, not that one,” Stiles murmurs. He fits his teeth around the thick line of muscle on Peter’s neck and gnaws gently.

“This one?” Peter asks, moving to touch a purple button-down. Stiles bites a little harder and Peter keeps moving his hand. “This?”

“It’s yellow,” Stiles says.

“It’s argyle.”

“Whatever.”

Peter shoves him in the direction of the bathroom. “You don’t have time to shower, just throw some product in your hair so it doesn’t look like we’ve been in bed all day. C’mon, hurry. Do you have clothes?”

Stiles goes, already planning on using up Peter’s expensive hair gel. Peter picks up Stiles’s clothes off the floor and throws them at Stiles’s bare ass. A few minutes later, Stiles emerges with his hair both—weirdly—crunchy and slick, and dressed in yesterday’s clothes, and finds Peter fully dressed and fastening the bracelet around his wrist. He’s wearing the grey and yellow argyle sweater.

“Your sweater’s ugly,” he says.

Peter growls and hooks his arm around Stiles’s neck, yanks him in for a bruising kiss that leaves Stiles a little bit dazed and giddy.

“Good thing you’re not,” he adds.

“That’s better. Let’s go.”

 

**For @Morgandy: Steter - Peter offering the bite to Stiles**

 

Peter’s favorite spot on Stiles’s body to kiss is not his lips or his neck—which are Stiles’s favorite spots to kiss Peter—but his wrist. It’s mostly when they’re in bed, curled up together after sex, and sometimes in the morning before Stiles really wakes up. Peter laces their fingers together and turns Stiles’s hand to expose the underside of his wrist, and he lays his lips there gently.

It’s not a brushing, chaste kiss, though. He presses his lips solidly to Stiles’s skin. Sometimes he licks, like he’s tasting Stiles, and sometimes he sucks, hard enough to leave a shadowy mark. He strokes Stiles’s fingers with his thumb and twists him into the perfect position and just breathes with his mouth open and resting there against him.

It takes a stupidly long time for Stiles to catch on and remember their first meeting, when Peter’s clawed hand was clenched tight around Stiles’s wrist and his fangs were descending. Stiles pulled away then, and he’s pulled away from Peter in many ways in the past, but no longer. Stiles can’t even remember when he stopped flinching and started leaning in, accepting Peter in his personal space, but it’s been a while now. Years. He wonders if Peter still thinks about that first night, though.

“I wish I hadn’t pulled away,” Stiles tells him one night, when Peter’s scraping his teeth gently across the thin skin of Stiles’s underarm.

He moves up to the crease of his wrist and sucks hard, and Stiles squirms as his fingers tingle. “No, you don’t.” He doesn’t even ask what Stiles is talking about. He knows. “I wasn’t fit to bite you back then. It’s okay.”

“No, but I still wish it could’ve been different.”

“You don’t want to be a werewolf,” Peter says, and Stiles doesn’t know how he knows that.

“I lied, though,” he says. “You knew that even back then.”

Peter sighs and gives Stiles’s wrist one last kiss before focusing instead on his face. “I heard what I wanted to hear. You’re curious about it, and you’re jealous of your friends, but you don’t want to change. Don’t you think I know you by now? If you really wanted to be a werewolf, you would’ve asked Scott once he became an alpha.”

Stiles is already shaking his head, though, and he says, “No, I want you to be my alpha.”

Peter studies him for a moment and Stiles knows he’s searching for the lie. He won’t find one. After a few seconds, Peter’s expression softens.

“Stiles,” he breathes. “I wish I could be that for you.”

“Maybe someday you could. If you’re an alpha… Then, yes. This is me saying yes.”

“I haven’t asked you anything yet. What if I—”

“Don’t even try to feed me that bullshit.”

Peter hums, his lips curled with amusement. He drags Stiles’s hand closer and kisses his palm, then his wrist. “Stiles, do you want the bite?”

“From you?” Stiles says. “Yes.”

Peter fits his teeth to where his lips just were and presses in, easing Stiles into a bite that will leave a mark but won't break the skin. Stiles's heart surges at how careful Peter is with him, and he knows this time that he's making the right choice.


End file.
